


Holding On

by Syrum



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Blood and Injury, Established Relationship, Gunshot Wounds, Hospitalization, Hospitals, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Injury Recovery, M/M, Major Character Injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-11
Updated: 2018-06-11
Packaged: 2019-05-21 02:26:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14906585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Syrum/pseuds/Syrum
Summary: Prompt fill for Lilynevin who asked for 'injury'They should have been curled up together, in bed, watching terrible movies, existing - the two of them.Except now Greg's in the hospital and Mycroft doesn't know if this might be goodbye.





	Holding On

**Author's Note:**

  * For [brooklyn09](https://archiveofourown.org/users/brooklyn09/gifts).



****“Gregory-”  Mycroft managed two steps forward, and stopped, the glass window halting his progress.  Behind it, he could scarcely see Greg’s still form for the myriad of people, of doctors and nurses and paramedics, tending to the man on the bed.  Raising his hand, he pressed it against the glass, not caring for the moment who saw, entirely too far past that level of self preservation. The cold of it against his palm felt like a bolt of lightning down his arm as the heart rate monitor flatlined.

Greg should never have even _been_ there.  It was his day off, _their_ day off, the first one they’d had together for over a month what with the criminal underbelly, the British government and - more typically - Sherlock conspiring to keep them apart.  A lazy morning, sleepy cuddles which would have inevitably turned into more had Mycroft’s phone not pinged and he was dragged, mentally kicking and screaming, from their shared bed into a ‘ _situation_ ’ with one of Russia’s ambassadors that simply could not wait until Monday.

So, Mycroft had gone to work, had left Greg with a goodbye kiss and a promise that he would return as swiftly as he was able.  Greg had seen his trepidation, the guilt that threatened to consume him, and had simply given Mycroft _that look_.  The one that told him he understood, it was unfortunate, but he loved him anyway.  It was layered with so much reassurance and adoration that it never failed to take Mycroft’s breath away.

That look also promised unspoken, filthy things for when he finally returned home, and the ensuing kiss was immeasurably difficult to walk away from.

It had been just after two when the call had come in; Greg had messaged him earlier that afternoon to let Mycroft know to expect a lavish cooked dinner upon his return, and to only consume a light lunch so that he would have enough room for what Greg had planned.  It made the whole situation all the more bearable, and the two hours following had seen Mycroft in raised spirits. He was just about finishing up for the day, rather earlier than expected; apparently his atypical affability had helped the process immensely, when Anthea stepped into his office, her mouth set in a grim line.

“Sir, there is a car waiting out front for you, I suggest you make haste.”  She paused for a moment, and he could see that she was mentally weighing up how best to continue.  “Detective Inspector Lestrade has been shot.”

Mycroft felt as though the ground had opened up beneath his feet, forgetting even how to breathe in that moment.  It was Anthea’s gentle but firm touch to his elbow which set him moving, and she struggled to keep up as he took the stairs two at a time, unwilling to wait for the lift.  As promised, the car was waiting, door open and engine idling, taking off down the street even before the door had fully closed. They had made it to the hospital three minutes after Greg’s ambulance.  The man had already been clinically dead for one and a quarter of those.

“ _Alright, clear!”_

_“Again, clear!”_

_“Come on god damn you,_ **_clear_ ** _!”_

Greg had been out shopping, nothing even remotely out of the ordinary, the streets busy with Sunday lunch time shoppers.  His dress had been casual; jeans, the shirt that Mycroft had placed in his half of the wardrobe without saying anything two weeks before, the one that brought out his eyes and fitted as though it had been made solely for his body - it lay open upon the operating table, cut to allow access to his skin.  The bullet had torn through Greg’s chest, too close to his heart and he had dropped like a stone. He had only left the apartment for food, for the meal he had planned to cook for Mycroft, its constituent parts now scattered behind a police cordon.

It was busy, someone had pulled a gun.  Greg hadn’t thought twice.

He hadn’t been wearing his Kevlar.

“ _We need to call it.”_  Too long, he’d been gone too long, and Mycroft felt the scream building in the back of his throat, legs threatening to give out as he watched the man he had sworn to grow old with, who he loved with an intensity he had never before believer possible, bleed out on the emergency room table.

The man he would die for.  The man he _lived_ for.

“ _One more, he’s not gone yet.”_  There were seven people in that room with him.  Seven human beings who despite their collective cleverness, could not cheat death.  Mycroft’s pulse pounded within his ears, drowning out everything save the eternal scream of Greg’s still heart.

They were personally invested, most of these people.  He didn’t need to deduce them to work that out - anyone could have seen it.  They knew Greg. Respected him.

The steady pulse of a heartbeat ripped a relieved cheer from the room, and Mycroft’s knees _did_ buckle then, his descent towards the polished linoleum stopped by two sets of familiar hands and he allowed himself to be manhandled away from the emergency room window to one of the nearby seats, scarcely aware of his surroundings.  It took a good few moments to realise that someone was speaking nearby.

“-fine, they brought him back, he’s a fighter he’ll get through this.”  Mycroft wasn’t so far gone to accept those words as gospel, but he clung onto them nevertheless.  It was all he could do. When John Watson took his hand and squeezed, Mycroft squeezed back.

* * *

“It’ll take him a bit to come around, just keep talking to him.”  The nurse offered Mycroft a reassuring smile, though he did not return it, attention firmly fixed on the pale form in the hospital bed.  “He might not recognise you when he wakes up; the drugs in his system will make everything a bit hazy for a few days, but give him time.”  He was pleased when she finally left them in peace, sitting as comfortably as was possible in the hard plastic of the hospital chair. Mycroft let his gaze roam over Greg’s face, his chest, his arms.  Everything else was concealed by the crisp white sheets which covered him, but he knew from memory the mass of bandages which hid his chest from view. Recalled with painful clarity the freshly stitched-up wound which he should not have been allowed to see but was left to observe anyway.  The bare chest, the gaping hole of the wound as they tried to staunch the bleeding even while dragging him back into the world of the living.

Greg was _alive_ , had been yanked back from death by the tips of his fingers.  He had been gone for just over three minutes, and while there was the possibility of some brain damage as a result, Mycroft was trying not to contemplate the worst case scenario.

He had already spent the past week and a half doing that.

Scans had been carried out as soon as Greg had been pronounced well enough, and no actual damage was visible; all they could do now was wait for him to wake up and hope for the best.  He had been kept asleep, an induced coma, to increase his chances of being able to fully heal and give his body the opportunity to rest. It had been hell, and Mycroft had barely left his side throughout.

Eyes flickered behind closed lids, lashes brushing cheeks and lips parting slightly as he pulled himself back to wakefulness, the drugs that had kept him in a never ending sleep slowly wearing off as he was allowed to come back to himself.  Depthless brown eyes fluttered open, unfocused and not quite seeing. He blinked heavily a handful of times, before letting his gaze roam around the room, expression one of curiosity rather than panic. Finally, his attention landed on Mycroft, and though he had been warned of the possibility beforehand the complete lack of recognition there was like a punch to the gut.

“Good morning.”  It was strangely difficult to choke out the words, fingers tightening around Greg’s own where they were intertwined on the bed, suddenly afraid to let go.

“Hi.”  Greg’s voice sounded hoarse, sandpaper-raw from too long without liquids and the tube they had forced down.  He coughed, and Mycroft helped him to sit, pressing the rim of the waiting glass against chapped lips so that he might take a drink.

“Slowly, just small sips.”  Mycroft kept hold of the glass as Greg’s hand wrapped over his own, allowing him to take measured little mouthfuls so that he would not make himself sick.  Two tubes poked out from the skin of the back of his hand, entry point hidden by gauze and tape, and the sight of even that much was enough to turn Mycroft’s stomach.  “How are you feeling?” He asked, once Greg was done with the water, placing the glass back down on the small side table next to the bed.

“Good.”  The slight slur of medication was still very much evident in Greg’s voice, and when he smiled it was not quite there and entirely heart breaking.  “You’re _really_ pretty.”

Whatever Mycroft had been expected to tumble from his husband’s mouth, that was certainly not it.

“You’re holding my hand, that’s nice.”  Greg continued, gaze half lidded and soft expression still in place.  He didn’t react as Mycroft turned slowly pink under his drug-induced flattery, didn’t seem to notice.  “I like your eyes.”

“You do?”  Mycroft asked, a little surprised.  His chest was doing something altogether strange, an odd combination of pleasure at the unbidden flattery and the fact that Greg was awake at all, and heartbreak.

“Yeah, they’re like-”  He paused, trying to find the words.  “The sky. Grey. I like them.”

“That’s kind of you to say.”  Managing a watery half-smile, he squeezed Greg’s hand again, earning another blistering grin that slowly faded as he blinked up from the hospital bed.

“I want to kiss you.”  Greg decided, looking a little rueful.  “I want to, but I can’t.”

“And why wouldn’t you be able to kiss me?”  Mycroft asked, keeping his voice quiet, reaching out to brush his free hand through Greg’s hair - clean, but unstyled and sleep-mussed, and soft against his hand.  He smelt of hospital-standard shampoo though, and while the scent was clean enough, it was decidedly not _Greg_.

“I don’t think my husband would like it if I did.”  He looked so serious, so conflicted, and Mycroft lifted his hand so that he could brush a soft kiss across Greg’s knuckles, barely a touch of lips.

“Your husband?”  The gold band felt heavy on his finger, warm against his skin where it pressed against Greg’s own hand.  Greg’s was missing, taken and stored when he was first brought in, the tan line barely starting to fade showing where it once sat.

“Mycroft.”  He clarified, smiling broadly and staring up at the ceiling, expression bright and open and so in love it hurt.  “He’s _wonderful_.”

All Mycroft could manage in response was a slightly strangled and extremely embarrassing little whine.  Greg, fortunately, did not seem to hear it, slipping back into sleep with the smile lingering on his lips.

* * *

“I can’t believe you _filmed_ that.”  Greg groaned, face in his hands as he sat on the sofa at 221b Baker Street, Sherlock smirking over at him from his chair while John attempted to muffle his laughter.  The video was still playing on John’s laptop, and Mycroft had disappeared into the kitchen once he realised what was going.

“It was too good of an opportunity to pass up.”  Sherlock replied, looking altogether too smug. Meanwhile, the video wobbled and John’s hissed admonishment of ‘ _Sherlock!_ ’ sounded rather closer to the phone used to record Greg’s drug-induced ramblings.  John had apparently noticed what Sherlock was doing at that point and elbowed him in the ribs to get him to stop.  Not that his outrage at the time prevented the aborted giggles that started up again at Greg’s right when the video looped.

“Quite.”  Mycroft replied, looking decidedly unamused as he pressed a fresh drink into Greg’s hand and threw his brother his most scathing look, which was dutifully ignored.  It had taken a good few days for Greg to start recognising him at the point of waking, and they hadn’t had a repeat of their first conversation - of which Greg thankfully had no memory.  He had only been out of the hospital for a few days, allowed a few hours of light exertion per day and nothing more. Still signed off work, and with alcohol entirely banned, Greg was _bored_ \- which is what had prompted their visit to see Sherlock and John.

Despite the video, he couldn’t find it in himself to regret it.

“Mate,” a hand found its way to rest on his forearm and squeezed, the expression on John’s face turning soft as the laughter transformed into a smile.  “I’m glad you’re okay.”

“Indeed.” Sherlock added, oddly sincere.  “If George weren’t around, who would get me my cases?”

“Not Sally, that’s for damn sure.”  Greg snorted, understanding the sentiment even if Sherlock himself could not voice it.  “Besides, one good thing came out of all this.”

“And what might that be?”  Looking up, Greg met Mycroft’s gaze and held it, smiling softly.  Reaching out, he took hold of his Mycroft’s hand and entwined their fingers together, squeezing slightly to make his wedding band press up against their joined fingers.

“I know now that, even when I’m half dead and high on drugs, you’re still the most beautiful person I’ve ever met.”


End file.
